When she’d gone out of view he wondered what it was about her that had caught him. He felt it in the pit of his stomach and between his legs.
A man came to the window and looked in. Then turned in the direction the girl had gone and gave a ‘come here’ wave.
He took a drink of tea, and when he looked again the girl was standing beside the man, peering into the shop, not at him but at the few other people and the two young women serving behind the counter.
The man was big, strongly built, well dressed like an office manager. Posh tan overcoat, red scarf, black trilby. He said a few words to the girl, handed her something, and walked away.
After a moment the girl came in and went to the counter. He wanted to watch and see what she bought, but thought it rude, so kept his eyes on the street.
He’d almost finished his tea, hadn’t touched the muffin, he never wanted to eat after an attack. He wondered whether he should buy another tea, he didn’t want it, but didn’t feel ready to tackle the outside either. He hadn’t decided when the girl came to his table and asked if he’d mind if she sat there. She had a foreign accent, he didn’t know what, but quite liked it, it made him smile.
He said, no it was OK.
She put her mug of espresso on the table, undid her coat and sat opposite him. She had very black hair, shoulder length and a bit wavy. Her face was round and pale with big blue eyes and a straight nose, and a wide mouth with lips he thought very kissable. Under her coat she was slim and wearing a tight white high-necked top that showed her breasts and the nipples.
He tried not to stare at her. But his eyes kept sliding back for another look. She was watching him all the time.
After a couple of sips of coffee she said, ‘I’m Nadia.’
‘Jack,’ he said. ‘Hi.’
She nodded and smiled and took another sip of coffee.
‘You looked a bit lonely,’ she said. ‘I thought you might like some company.’
‘No, it’s not that,’ he said.
She watched him but didn’t respond.
‘On my way for an interview,’ he said, unable to sit there saying nothing.
‘A job?’ she said. ‘What sort?’
‘No, not a job. Interview for a place at the uni,’ he said, and added, thinking she might not understand, ‘the university.’
‘Clever!’ she said but not mocking. ‘To study?’
‘Microbiology.’
‘I don’t know that.’
‘Neither do I much.’
‘What is it?’
‘The study of very small bugs and things you can only see with a powerful microscope, and their effects on people.’
‘Like, you mean, diseases?’
‘Diseases and behaviour.’
She drank more coffee.
‘You want your bun perhaps?’ she said.
‘My muffin? No.’ Then realised why she’d asked. ‘Would you like it?’
He pushed the plate towards her. She took the muffin, stripped off its paper cup and began to eat quite hungrily.
She looked at him apologetically, and said, ‘No breakfast.’
They sat in silence till she finished eating, dabbing up fallen crumbs and bits off the paper cup with her fingertip and licking them off.
He couldn’t take his eyes from her now.
‘On your way to work?’ he asked.
‘Work? No. When is your interview?’
‘This afternoon. At two.’
‘A long wait.’
‘Didn’t want to be late, and the trains from home aren’t that frequent.’
‘You don’t live here?’
‘No. Wiltshire.’
‘Wilt-shire,’ she said, smiling and pronouncing each syllable.
‘Thought of spending some time at the British Museum but—well—’
She waited, expecting him to go on. When he didn’t, but instead looked out at the street, she said, ‘Well?’
He gave her a nervous look. He didn’t like talking about it. People didn’t understand, thought he was just being weak-willed. But he remembered that look of instant recognition and there was something about her that made him want to tell her.
‘Well, the thing is, I suffer from agoraphobia.’
‘Agora?’
‘Agoraphobia. Fear of open spaces. Not always everywhere. But I never know where.’
‘And what happens?’
‘I kind of go to pieces. Can’t make sense of anything. Signs for instance. I panic and can’t get my breath. My body goes weak and if I’m not careful I collapse.’
‘So what you do?’
‘Get inside.’
‘It happen this morning?’
‘Just outside. That’s why I came in.’
‘Nasty.’
‘Not nice, that’s true.’
‘But why no one with you?’
‘My parents offered. And a teacher. But I wanted to do it on my own. I mean, if I’m given a place here I’ll have to move about on my own. We did a dry run, my father and me, a week ago, so I’d know where to go and how to get there. I thought I’d be OK. But I just lost it this morning. I guess the nerves about the interview brought it on.’
‘So what you do now?’
‘Try again, what else?’
She gave him a thoughtful look.
He smiled and shrugged.
‘If you like,’ she said after a moment, ‘you come to my place. Wait there. Then I walk you where you have to go.’
‘Really?’
‘I know what it’s like. On your own in strange place.’
‘You’re not British?’
‘Ukrainian. Came to study English. But have to work because of money.’
‘It’s very good, your English.’
‘My passion at school. And better living here.’
‘How long?’
‘Here? One year.’
She drained her mug, looked at him, smiling, and said, ‘So, you come to my place?’
He couldn’t resist even had he wanted to.
It was a small room in a house of one-room flats not far from the station. A table, a dining chair, a battered armchair, a cheap wardrobe, and a double bed with a gaudy cover. There was a bedside cabinet with a lamp on it of a naked woman with an arm raised above her head that was supposed to hold a bulb but didn’t. A little kitchen area was partitioned off from the bedroom with a weary, faded curtain over the doorway, and through another open door a small bathroom with only a shower, hand basin and loo. The room had a single window, curtained with tired muslin and heavy blue drapes hanging at the sides. His mother would have said the curtains could do with a good wash and the window as well. But otherwise the room was bare. Empty. No personal things. Nothing like his sister’s room. No clothes, no makeup, no posters, no CDs, no books, no computer, not even a TV or radio. A room belonging to nobody.
He didn’t quite know what to do or where to put himself.
‘Sit,’ she said, taking off her coat and hanging it behind the door, and taking his and hanging it over hers.
‘You’d like coffee?’ she asked. ‘Tea? Something?’
He sat at the table. ‘I’m OK, thanks.’
She sat on the edge of the bed, arms stretched to her sides, her hands supporting her. Long legs in tight blue jeans and her tight white top and pale face, and big eyes and black hair in waves.
They looked at each other, he unsure now and she as if waiting for something to happen, something to be said, he didn’t know what, which made him even more uncomfortable. He began to wonder if he should have come here and whether he should go.
Then she took a deep breath and said, ‘Look. Sorry.
I lied. Well, no, not lie. I am Ukrainian. I did think I was to study English. That’s what they said, the people who brought me. The men. They said they fix everything. Passport. Visa. Everything. And somewhere to live. I work part-time for them as secretary and study part-time. I was very eager, you know. It was my dream. Come to England. Study
language. The men seemed honest. They seemed kind. They want money to get me here and set up. A lot of money. But I save from a job, and my aunt, my favourite in our family and I am hers, I told her about plan, she gave me rest of money. So I paid and everything fixed. But it wasn’t what I expect. None of it. The men who brought me not the men who fixed it. They shut me in room with five other girls from different places. Romania, Bulgaria, Russia. We not allowed out. Never. They keep us in that room for many days. They told us we work for them to pay off money they say we owe. They say they show us the work we do. And it began with—it began with—’
She was crying now. Tears but no sounds. Only the words she was speaking like a recorded voice machine.
He didn’t know what to do, sat fixed in his chair.
‘The men, three of them. They took us. Each of the girls. You know? Used us. It was not my first time. I had boy at home. But it was—’
The crying stopped her talking. But still no other sounds. No sobs, no gasping for breath, no wracked movements. She was rock still. Only tears and a raw blank look.
He had never seen anything so upsetting. Tears came to his eyes. He struggled not to break down.
There was silence for a long time.
Then she sniffed, wiped her eyes and began again.
‘They make me work from here. One of them is boss. He brings me from place where they keep us. He brings me in van with no windows so I can’t see where we go. One of his men watches all day what I do and stop me running away. They take me back in van when I’ve done enough. Sometimes it is all night as well as all day. The boss makes me pick up men and bring them here. He takes all money. He tells me what to charge. If I don’t give him right amount afterwards he beats me. When he feels like it he has me himself. Mostly, it’s his man who’s with me. But the boss with me this morning. You saw him?’
He nodded, unable to speak.
‘He saw me look at you. He’s clever. Misses nothing. He told me to pick you up. And here you are.’
She stirred. Got up and went to the bathroom. Blew her nose. Drank some water. Came back. Sat down again.
‘I lie. Sorry.’
‘I don’t want—’ he said.
‘No. I saw you sitting in the café. You look lonely. Worried also. I can’t help looking at you. It wasn’t I thought you’d be a good trick. Lonely men are. Older men especially. The boss tell look for the lonely ones, the ones who need company, need help, want relief. They’re the easiest. But not what I thought about you. When I see you I think about myself. You look like I feel all the time. I say to him you weren’t for me. But he say I have to. He say you’d be easy.’
‘He was right.’
She tried to smile. It was enough to lighten her eyes. ‘Yes! You must be more careful. It’s dangerous out there!’
He took a deep breath and let it out. He looked at her and knew he wanted her. But not like this. Not as one of the men she was forced to go with. And not here where she had to do what they wanted. But he did want her. He’d never had a girl. She’d be his first. At his age, at eighteen, he was so ashamed of this he lied when asked. Yes, he always said, yes, he’d had a few. He wouldn’t give details, pretending to be shy about it.
He said, ‘If I go without giving you any money, what will he do?’
‘Beat me. He knows how without leaving ugly marks or breaking anything.’
The thought tightened his chest.
‘I’ve got some money,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if it’s enough, but you can have it. How much do you need?’
‘Depends what I’ve done for you.’
‘Well, what’s the cheapest?’
‘No. I shouldn’t have done this. I should have say you say no. But there was this something. Something. About you. I want to be with you.’
‘But did you think I’d . . . have it with you?’
‘You’re angry.’
‘I’m not angry. I’m puzzled.’
‘I think nothing. Doing what I do, you stop thinking. You can’t afford thinking. You cut your mind off. Cut your feelings off. Go dead inside. Do what you’re told. Do what you have to. No thinking. Just wanting. Wanting someone to be with and not do any of that. Someone who want to be with me only because I’m me. That look you give me, it kind of wake me up. I feel it. Here.’ She pointed to her stomach. ‘I feel it here. But I don’t come for you, not if he had not made me. The way I look at you give me away. They allow no feeling for anybody else. They want you not to be human. They want you to be machine for sex. All most of the men want.’
‘But if I don’t give you money, what are you going to do?’
‘I be nice to him. I know what he likes. But I prefer he beat me than please him. I’m used to it.’
‘Haven’t you tried to escape?’
‘I see what they do to girls who try. They make us watch. And I have no passport, no identity card, no work permit, no money, nothing. They take everything. Even clothes. Even things I brought with me. Personal things. What I do, even if I escape? Where I go?’
‘There must be something you can do.’
‘You no idea. Eh? No? No idea what the world is like for someone like me.’
‘But can’t I help? What can I do? I’d like to help.’
They looked at each other, he leaning towards her, urgent, she wary, assessing him.
And after a moment she said quietly, leaning towards him, as if she might be overheard, ‘Something.’
He said as quietly, ‘Tell me.’
‘They not let us shop. We tell them what we want. They buy, if they say OK. Some things they won’t.’
‘What? What is it you want?’
‘A crucifix.’
‘A crucifix?’
‘Like people wear round necks.’
‘A cross, you mean? Or one with Christ on it?’
‘A cross. A gold cross. Little. Easy to hide.’
He sat back.
She sighed, as if something long pent up had at last been let out.
‘You’re a Christian?’ he asked.
‘And also a Bible. They take mine. My cross and my Bible. They say only fools believe in God. They say the Bible is book of lies.’
‘And you want me to buy them for you.’
‘You are Christian?’
‘Not especially.’
‘You believe in God?’
‘No. And I don’t see how you can after what’s happened.’
She looked hard at him. ‘Do not blame God for what people do.’
‘I don’t, because I don’t believe there’s a God to blame. And if I were made to do what you’re made to do I wouldn’t survive. I wouldn’t want to. I don’t know how you live through it.’
She stood up, eased herself, and sat down on the bed again cross-legged.
‘I tell you, I do not think when with a man. I do not think what he is doing or what he is making me do. What I do, I pray. From the minute I pick him up to the time he goes, I think of God. I give myself to God, not the man. This how I survive. So do not mock my belief.’
‘I don’t. I wasn’t. I’m only saying I don’t believe in God. In any god.’
‘Because you do not have to. You have easy life. You never have to survive. You do not know the word. What it means. Only people who will die know what survive means.’
He felt humbled. A child compared with this girl sitting on an ugly bed in this nobody-room where she suffered torture every day.
‘My faith and prayers keep me alive,’ she went on. ‘A cross and a Bible help.’
‘Won’t they take them from you?’
‘I hide them here. Then smuggle them where they keep us and hide them there. I know of places. Will you do it? Will you buy them for me?’
‘You mean now?’
‘You have time. And money. They cost not much. Less than you pay for me. Even the cheapest.’
He knew he’d do it.
‘But if someone is watching all the time, won’t he see me leave and come to
get the money?’
‘I tell him you want more than you have and go to get money. He see you come back and it will be OK.’
He got up and put his coat on.
‘I’ll do it. The only thing is—’
‘Ah, yes! Your agora.’
‘Yes.’
‘Listen. A jeweller shop. Not far. Turn left from this building. On same side. A bookshop farther along. They have a little Bible? Not far. Not long. Maybe the agora not happen.’
He had no trouble. Not a twinge of his phobia. Instead a fearful excitement he’d never felt before that made his heart beat faster and his body move more quickly. He bought a little gold cross on a thin silver chain. The Bible was as small as a paperback, printed on very thin paper. He put them in his pockets so the man on the watch wouldn’t see he was carrying anything. And he stopped at a cash dispenser and withdrew money to give to her.
On the way back he saw an alley he’d noticed on the way to the shops. It ran down the side of the building next to the flats. He wondered if it led to the back of them. On the spur of the moment he dodged into the alley. It did lead to the rear of her building. And there was a service door, as he’d hoped there would be.
He made his way to the stairs. Her room was on the third floor. The stairs were dingy, covered in worn carpet, the lights had to be on even in daytime. The windows at the head of the stairs on each floor were so grimy he couldn’t see through them.
When he reached her door he paused, listening, his ear close.
Nothing. No voices. No sound of movement.
He tapped quietly with his fingertips.
The door opened instantly, but instead of the girl there was a man. Very big, thickset, shaven bullish head, a face like carved rock and eyes as brutal as his body.
Before he could say or do anything the man grabbed his arm, pulled him into the room, kicked the door shut, and held him from behind in an armlock so painful he cried out.
The girl was wedged in the corner behind the table, her arms hugging herself in fear.
Nothing was said. While holding him with one hand the man began turning out his pockets. His wallet, book for reading on the train, pen, letter from the university, the folded street map he’d Googled of the area between the station and the place for the interview, his mobile, the money he’d just withdrawn from the dispenser. And the Bible and the cross on its chain. All thrown like litter onto the bed.
The Kissing Game: Stories of Defiance and Flash Fictions Page 11